


The Inevitable Dusk

by biswholocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Case Fic, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mystery, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biswholocked/pseuds/biswholocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case connects back to Mycroft, Sherlock is determined to find out what's going on. </p><p>Mycroft, up against an invisible enemy, is determined to keep his brother safe.</p><p>Nothing turns out like either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based upon [a prompt on the kink meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131357049#t131357049) (contains spoilers for plot). I'm finally posting this because I'm tired of worrying if it's good enough; there is a second chapter that I am almost finished with and hope to have up within the next week or so.
> 
> I didn't feel like discussing Mary this time around, so this exists in some AU where Sherlock comes back and Mary isn't there. I imagine that the events in TEH still happened, just sans Mary, and that this story takes place about five months after Sherlock's return (so no HLV).
> 
> Title from this quote:“ Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk.” - Susan Scarf Merrell

“Bored!”

John looked up at the kitchen ceiling - now charred in one area thanks to another one of Sherlock’s experiments - and prayed to whatever deities may exist for patience. And a case. It was going on three weeks without one, and Sherlock was constantly in a sulk, flouncing about in his pyjamas and dressing gown; John wasn’t certain how long it’d been since Sherlock had slept or ate, but it had to have been a while, judging by the bruise-coloured bags underneath his friend’s eyes.

Sherlock made a sound of irritation from where he was sprawled out on the sofa, and hauled himself up, sauntering towards the kitchen with a malicious glint in his eye; John forced himself to stay calm and take another bite of his risotto, waiting for the inevitable deductions that Sherlock would make.

“You were supposed to go on a date tonight,” Sherlock began, running his gaze over John. “Outfit, shaved, cologne, shoes.” After each observation, Sherlock pointed, and John stared back, face blank; the first few times this had happened, spiteful deductions at the height of Sherlock’s boredom, he’d been insulted, hurt. But eventually he’d learned that it was just another facet of Sherlock’s personality, an attempt to find some kind of stimulation when the world was screaming and Sherlock’s mind was dying for a case.

“But you didn’t go out,” Sherlock continued. “It’s half past nine and you’re sitting here, eating the leftover risotto from two nights ago because you decided it wasn’t worth cooking something new-- you wouldn’t stand a girl up, oh _no_. You’re too much of a gentleman for that, so she must have called, cancelled. But you didn’t reschedule, either, because your lips were pursed in that way you only ever do that when something disappoints you. So, she broke up with you, marking her as yet another girlfriend deciding you weren’t worth it.”

John blinked and took a breath. “Do you want some of this?” he asked, gesturing to his plate with his fork. “There’s another plate of it in the fridge.”

“I do not want to eat!” Sherlock snapped, gesturing wildly with his hand. “I want a case, I need to work!” With a sound of frustration, Sherlock dropped into the chair opposite John, burying his hands in his hair and tugging on the strands.

John reached over and lightly gripped Sherlock’s fingers, gently pulling them away from Sherlock’s hair and setting them on the table. “I know you’re getting….restless. Far past that, actually. But you need to eat, and sleep, too, Sherlock. At least a nap. You look like hell.” Without waiting for an answer, John stood from the table and walked to the fridge, pulling out the extra plate of food and popping it in the microwave.

* * *

 

_Three Weeks Earlier_

_Someone was in his flat._

_Mycroft closed his front door with a soft click and turned to face the living room, the space faintly illuminated by the streetlamps outside the windows. The furniture was unoccupied, and Mycroft moved purposefully through the flat, determined to find the source of the sense of violation and disturbance that hung in the air._

_When he came upon the kitchen, Mycroft stopped; he could just make out the figure of a man, slouched in one of the tall chairs that were placed around the center island. A bright flame glowed in the darkness, and the scent of cigarette smoke permeated the room._

_Mycroft flicked on the light, revealing the man to be tall, blond, and relatively muscular, dressed in street clothes. Messenger, Mycroft decided, but amended his opinion when he saw the glint in the stranger’s eyes. Unassuming, but scheming. The two men regarded each other silently, taking stock of strengths, weaknesses, trying to puzzle each other out._

_After a long moment, Mycroft moved further into the kitchen and walked past the man to the liquor cabinet, selecting a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. He set them both down on the counter and poured a liberal amount into each glass, then gestured to the other man to choose a drink._

_“Not interested,” the man growled, and Mycroft shrugged gracefully before taking a sip from his own glass._

_“That begs the question what, exactly, you are interested in.”_

_“What, you can’t_ deduce _it from me?”_

 _Mycroft’s blood ran cold._ They only ever say that to Sherlock. So this is deliberate, then _. The words that he could say, the words that Sherlock would say, piled up on his tongue:_

You’re military, ex, probably started hiring yourself out as a mercenary during your tours and after you were dishonorably discharged you continued to stay in the business. You’re sneaky, as evidenced by your ability to move around my security, but not intelligent, because you came here to begin with. You’re driven by emotion, a horrible disadvantage, I’m afraid, and are most likely here to exact some kind of revenge _._

_Outwardly, Mycroft took another sip of his drink and regarded the man impassively. “I am not blessed with such talents, I’m afraid. You’ll simply have to tell me what you want.”_

_The man narrowed his eyes and sneered as he took another drag from his cigarette. “I want blood, Mister Holmes,” he said lowly. “You took something from me, so I’m going to take something from you.” With that, the man reached over and plucked Mycroft’s glass from his fingers; he tossed back the scotch, then stubbed out his cigarette in the bottom of the tumbler. With a cold smile, the man turned and walked out of the kitchen._

_Mycroft watched him go, and listened for the sound of the man’s exit. He then pulled out his mobile, pressing the first number on his speed dial and listening to the ring tone until his assistant picked up._

_“Sir?”_

_“There was a man who just left my flat. Find out where he went.”_

_“Yes sir,” she replied, and Mycroft waited impatiently (but not fidgeting, never that. Gave too much away) as she networked with the security details._

_“I’m sorry sir, there have been no unauthorized personnel in the vicinity of your flat in days. The last one was just a mixup of addresses.”_

That’s not possible. He was sitting in my kitchen not two minutes ago, _Mycroft wanted to say, but instead he answered politely, “Thank you. Please do keep an eye out for any...incidents.”_

_“Certainly sir.”_

* * *

 

 Sherlock strode into the bedsit, sharp gaze already running over the debris and taking in data. “This wasn’t his flat,” he stated, nodding towards the body as he examined the mattress in the corner, covered in stains.

“No,” Lestrade confirmed from the doorway, looking down at his notes. “The tenant is a Michele Fox- she came home this morning after spending the night at a friend's and found the victim just lying there. No idea who he is or how he got inside.”

Sherlock made a small sound of acknowledgement, but his mind was already spinning away as he turned to the corpse in the corner, Lestrade’s words melting into the background. _Early twenties_ , he figured from the young man’s appearance, though it would’ve been a rough life, judging by the tough skin and apparently permanent layer of dirt under the fingernails. _At least three years on the streets. Drug use? Possibly- must tell Molly to run some tests._

“Cause of death is most likely the gunshot to the head,” John remarked from the other side of the body, gently cradling the man’s skull in his hands as he examined the wound.

“I concur,” Sherlock said distractedly as he snapped a picture on his mobile, then pulled out his magnifier and moved down to analyse the shoes. “There’s no visible signs of poison or strangulation. Though the choice of shooting him in the head is quite interesting. He was in the mud recently, sometime within the last twelve hours most likely, there was quite the downpour at about one this morning. Wouldn’t be surprised if it was from some other section of the East End. If I can break down the contents I’ll be able to pinpoint where exactly. Do you know his name?”

“No,” Lestrade admitted. “Part of the reason we called you in, actually. Not a bleedin idea who he is, and yet…”

“And yet, still important enough to dispose of in a manner similar to hits; that, in combination with the fact that a gun was used at all...” Sherlock caught John’s eyes over the dead man and smiled a bit, eyes bright with excitement. “Yes, Lestrade,” he continued, jumping up and clicking his magnifier closed, then pulling a small plastic bag and some tweezers out of his coat pocket, bending down to collect a sample of the mud, “This one does show promise. Come along, John. I’ll text when I have the mud results, Lestrade, and oh, do make yourself useful for once and tell Molly to be very thorough in her toxicology tests-- I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a long-term user. Keep searching for a name to attach to him; I’ll get in contact with my Network, they may be able to tell me who he is.” With that, Sherlock swept out, sticking the bag of caked mud into his pocket, and walked to the kerb, raising an arm for a cab.

“Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_ , John,” Sherlock said with relish as a cab pulled up and he opened the door. “It’s been _ages_ since a nice, interesting murder.” He’d been far past the point of shooting the walls when Lestrade had called about the case, and even a case like this (a six at the most) was a welcome relief from the crowding thoughts that had been shouting at him over the past weeks.

“Nice to know someone’s happy about a man dying,” John grumbled, sliding in next to Sherlock, but there wasn’t any heat to the words.

“Oh hush,” Sherlock said, waving John’s complaint away with a swish of his hand. “We’re catching a killer, pursuing justice, all that nonsense. Now really, shut up. I’m thinking.” John huffed in response, but Sherlock wasn’t paying attention, already turning to look out the window, then unfocusing his gaze and delving into his Mind Palace.

* * *

 

_Two Weeks, Five Days Earlier_

_Mycroft loosened his tie with a sigh and rubbed his temples, carefully taking his building frustration and storing it away. After taking a moment to close his eyes and recenter himself, he picked up the files again and looked over them for what felt like the hundredth time._

_He’d asked his assistant (Martha, today) for a list of dishonorably discharged military men from five years ago, and had been pouring over lists of names and faces, trying to find the man that had managed to enter and exit his flat without alerting the security detail that was constantly vigilant. Nothing. He’d looked at personal enemies, as well as Sherlock’s, but again, the mysterious intruder appeared to be a ghost in the system._

_So. Mycroft set the file down and tapped his fingers on the desk, searching for his next move._ If he’s a ghost _, he thought,_ it would be beneficial to look at those who can make someone disappear. _Erasing a person completely from databases took effort, resources, connections. There were only a few men - or women - who had that kind of organisation._

_A short set of knocks came from the other side of his office door, and Martha opened the door slightly, poking her head into the room._

_“You should leave now, if you want to arrive on time for your meeting with the Prime Minister, sir.”_

_Mycroft pasted on a polite smile. “Thank you--  I’ll be there in a moment.”_

_Martha nodded in reply, focus already back on the mobile in her hand, and closed the door behind her. Mycroft took one last glance at the file in front of him before closing it and tucking it away in one of the desk drawers. Standing, he retightened his tie and smoothed his jacket before leaving the office, being sure to grab his umbrella on the way out._

* * *

Sherlock pulled back from the microscope and growled in frustration, fingers coming up to tug at his hair.

“How’s it coming along?” John asked conversationally from the counter, where he was refilling the kettle for another brew of tea.

“Oh shut up,” Sherlock snapped, and glared mutinously at the plate that John had set on the table, a simple ham and cheese sandwich sitting on it. Bothering him. “I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t care,” John replied easily as he left the kitchen and settled into his armchair. “Eat anyway. You’re no use to anyone if you collapse from lack of nutrition.”

“I can’t narrow it down!” Sherlock ranted, ignoring John’s insistence that he eat and stalking into the living room, pacing the strip of floor that ran between the sofa and the coffee table. “I’ve only been able to determine that it’s from somewhere in Whitechapel.”

“I’m surprised you’ve gotten that far,” John said honestly.

 _That far? Two years ago, I could have told you the specific street it came from, whether it was part of a landscape project or just natural dirt. It’s wreaked havoc on my samples, don’t you understand? I was gone, and London has mutated, new streets I haven’t yet catalogued, buildings that have transferred hands, mud that’s changed in composition_ , Sherlock opened his mouth to say, but his mouth clicked shut as he caught a glimpse out the window; he groaned when he saw the plain black car that had just pulled up in front of 221B. “Insufferable prying bastard,” he muttered, and flopped onto the couch so that he was on his stomach, face pressed into the seat cushions. A few moments later, the ground floor door opened, and he could hear Mycroft speaking to Mrs Hudson at the bottom of the stairs. Probably trying to bribe her into keeping an (even closer) eye on me.

“Hello, Mycroft,” John greeted after Mycroft had come up the stairs. _Stupid John. Why is he always so damn polite?_

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was just as smug, intolerable as ever.

“Piss off,” Sherlock muttered.

“Really Sherlock,” Mycroft chastised. “The problems you’re having with your mud samples are hardly my fault.”

“Everything is your fault,” Sherlock grumbled darkly in reply. “Now get out. I’m not taking whatever boring government case you’ve brought.”

“No case,” his brother said nonchalantly. “Just a social call, this time. Thought I would check up on my little brother and see how he and his...friend are doing.”

Sherlock lifted his head up slightly and glared at Mycroft over his shoulder. “Social calls?” he scoffed. “You don’t do social calls. Don’t start now.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I shall be off, then.”

“Are you sure? I could make up some tea,” John offered from his armchair, despite the scowl Sherlock shot his way.

“No, Doctor Watson, I think I’ll pass. Thank you all the same.” Mycroft looked over to Sherlock. “Good day, brother dear. Enjoy your case. The mud’s from the area around Whitechapel Mission, by the way: I hear there’s a homeless shelter around there.” With a quick smile, Mycroft turned and left the way he had came, the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairs.

Sherlock awkwardly rolled onto his back, managing not to fall off of the sofa, and stared balefully at the ceiling. “I despise him.”

John only hummed in response and flipped open the newspaper. “Eat your sandwich.”

* * *

 

_One Week Earlier_

_Mycroft excused himself from his conference with a placid smile and a murmured apology, and stepped out into the marble-gilded corridor. After a glance confirmed that the hall was empty, he pulled out his mobile and checked the missed call list._

Blocked Number _, read the screen, and with a sliver of apprehension, he dialed back. Someone picked up the line after precisely four rings._

_“I wondered if you were going to call back,” the man said._

_Mycroft forced a calm, composed note into his reply. “It would’ve been incredibly rude of me not to; breaking off acquaintanceships before you know one another’s names is poor taste.”_

_The man laughed, a scratchy, coarse sound that revealed his years as a smoker. “You want my name? You think I don’t know what you can find out about me with a name?”_

_“It doesn’t have to be your full name, but it would be refreshing to refer to you as something other than ‘stranger’,” Mycroft responded._

_There was a long pause that was only filled with the sound of the man’s breathing, and then: “Seb.”_

_Mycroft allowed the barest twitch of his lips as an outward sign of his feeling of triumph, and mentally took a breath before his next move. “Well then, Seb, tell me: was it you who was able to drag Moriarty’s body off of the roof before my people came to collect it?”_

_Mycroft heard Seb inhale sharply. “How could you know that?” the other man growled savagely._

_“Oh, so I was correct.”_

_“Shut up!”_

_“Why?” Mycroft asked, tone still perfectly neutral. “Surely being employed by Jim Moriarty was an honour, in your eyes.”_

_“And then your damn brother_ killed _him,” Seb snarled. “And I’m going to wring that fucking detective’s neck, break every bone in his body, flay his skin with the sharpest knife I can find, and_ murder _him.”_

_Mycroft wanted to say something, anything, but his brain had gone temporarily offline-- while part of him, somewhere, was memorising this conversation, dissecting Seb’s motives and game plan, the majority of his mind was instinctually rebelling against the words he was hearing, preparing to hunt Seb down, wherever he was, and prevent him from touching Sherlock._

_“It would be so easy, too,” Seb was saying now. “Just a quick jog across the street, claim to be a client when that landlady answers the door-- the pet doctor might be a good shot, but not better than me. Your brother’s brains would be splattered against the walls in less than a minute, and there would be nothing to stop me.”_

_“Sherlock and Doctor Watson have a security team.”_

_“And look how well that worked for you, how safe you are inside your home. Do you think I couldn’t easily perform the same trick on the goons guarding Sherlock Holmes?”_

_Seb rang off before Mycroft could reply, and he was left standing alone in the hall, mobile still pressed to his ear, feeling (for the first time in years) something that might be fear._

* * *

 

The sound of his phone made Sherlock pull himself off the couch in a flash, snagging the mobile off the coffee table and barking into the receiver. “Molly. Tell me.”

“Oh, um, hi, Sherlock,” Molly replied, sounding as flustered and hopeful as she did in person. Sherlock sighed.

“Hello Molly. Now. Tell me.”

“Right, yes. I ran the tox screens, and you were right about the drug use. A couple years, at least.”

“I already knew I would be. What was he using, Molly?”

“Oh! Cocaine.”

“Hmm. Interesting. Good day, Molly,” Sherlock said distractedly, and hung up before tossing his mobile away, not paying attention to the clatter of it hitting the coffee table; he then curled himself up on the couch, knees coming up to his chest and his fingers in a steeple gently touching his lips. _Cocaine. Not surprising, it is fairly easy to get ahold of, if you know the right people. Perhaps I’ll go down to Whitechapel, talk to the Network there. They would know who had that kind of power. It would also be beneficial to visit the mission. Not because Mycroft suggested it, certainly not, I just-_

“Sherlock?”

“What?” Sherlock asked absentmindedly. Having the ballistics would help immensely. Stupid Scotland Yard, and their procedures.

“Was that Molly?”

“Yes. He was a cocaine addict.” Sherlock unfurled himself from the sofa, grabbed his phone, and quickly walked over to the door, donning his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck. He plucked John’s jacket off and tossed it to him without looking, then turned and gestured hurriedly. “C’mon.”

John stood from his chair and held his jacket in one hand, looking at him. “Where are we going?”

“Whitechapel. Obviously,” Sherlock said crisply, then swept out the door.

 

John stared after Sherlock for a second ( _cocaine?_ ), then shook himself mentally and followed, making sure the door clicked shut behind him before hurrying down the stairs. Sherlock had already made it outside, leaving the door wide open, and had just hailed a cab by the time John caught up.

“Whitechapel Mission,” Sherlock barked at the cabbie, then became absorbed in his mobile. John watched him, a slight frown on his face. It only took a few seconds for Sherlock to heave a put-upon sigh and glare at John from the corner of his eye.

“What? I can _hear_ the cogs and gears turning.” He flicked his fingers in John’s direction with annoyance, “It’s immensely distracting.”

John cleared his throat and tried to relax, forcing himself to sit back against the seat. “Sorry, I just. Cocaine?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Yes. He took cocaine. Why is this-- ah.” Sherlock pointed at him. “You’re concerned that I am reacting emotionally to the victim’s drug abuse because of my own scandalous background with the same illegal substance.”

“Well, um. Yes, actually,” John admitted uncomfortably; Sherlock just looked back down at his mobile with a soft snort of derision.

“Don’t worry about me, John. I am perfectly secure in my sobriety. If I fell into old habits every time a case involved someone who took drugs, I’d have overdosed and died by now. Now kindly stop thinking, I need to plan.”

John looked out the window, watching Sherlock’s face in the reflection, and tried to ignore the pocket of worry that had taken up house in his chest, words stuck in the back of his throat. _But I am worried. Not just about the case, either, though of course that’s troublesome, cocaine dealers don’t exactly spell for a good time. You’re...different. The same, you’re still an arse, but in a different way. And we’ve never really talked about it, but I know things happened to you, while you were gone. I just hope it doesn’t haunt you too much._

The cabbie’s curt, “We’re here,” cut through John’s thoughts, and with a start, he reached for the door and pushed it open, rolling his eyes when Sherlock sailed past. Sighing, John reached for his wallet and ducked down to the window.

“How much?”

“17.50.”

John pulled out a twenty pound note and held it out. “Keep the change,” he said, and nodded shortly before following Sherlock, who was standing outside the Whitechapel Mission-- or more accurately, pacing, coat flapping behind him from the strong breeze.

“So, what’s the plan, exactly?” John asked as he came closer.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen. “You are going to go in there,” he began, gesturing to the mission behind him, “and talk to the staff. Find out if they know our victim. Just sent you the picture I snapped at the crime scene. I am going to go meet up with one of my Network.”

John’s phone buzzed, undoubtedly the photo Sherlock had been talking about. “And when we’re finished?”

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. “Meet up at Rinkoff’s Bakery. It’s east, on Jubilee.” Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock turned and began walking down the street, disappearing around the corner. John stared after him, then straightened his shoulders and, with a resigned inhale, turned to face the Whitechapel Mission.

It was an old building, with a dingy brick exterior and a plain, unassuming sign above the front door; to the left was a bulletin board, and John stopped just in front of it, scanning the notices. “Meals served daily at 7AM, 12 Noon, and 7PM,” read the top one, the others announcing special occasions and meetings. John pulled open the door and stepped inside, a soft bell announcing his presence.

“Hello,” an elderly lady greeted from a desk in the front lobby, her velvet suit fitting in perfectly with the well-worn carpet and sparse pieces of furniture. “How may I help you?”

John smiled, the one that he’d learned from his mother and her old bridge group made him look (in their words) adorable, and came closer. “Well, ma’am,” he began, voice low as he leant over the desk, creating an air of confidentiality. “I was wondering if you would be willing to help in an investigation.”

The lady looked to see if there was anyone else in the room, then answered him in a hushed tone. “What kind of an investigation? Are you a detective?”

“Of sorts,” John replied. “I’m helping out a friend, see. I need to find a man’s family. Do you think if I showed you a picture, you could tell me if you recognise him?”

The woman’s eyes grew sympathetic behind her large, thick glasses. “Oh, the poor dear. Of course, anything I can do.”

John flashed her another smile and pulled out his mobile, opening up the picture Sherlock had sent him and showing it to her, keeping quiet as she peered at it.

“Yes, I’m certain I’ve seen him in here before,” she said after a moment. “For some of our meals. He was rather quiet, from what I remember, but then so many of them are. Think it’s shameful, which is downright silly, we’re happy to help-”

“When was the last time you remember seeing him?” John interrupted gently.

“Oh...three days ago, I think? For our dinner; I felt awful, closing up that night, what with the snow, but we just don’t have the space to offer accommodations.”

John took ahold of the woman’s hand, lightly cradling the papery skin, and tried to push as much sincerity he could into his next words; something about the woman, who had undoubtedly been a part of the church for most of her life, sitting there day after day trying to make a difference, struck a chord in him. “I am certain that every person that walks through that door appreciates everything you’re doing very much, ma’am. And that man’s family will be thankful to know what happened, in the end.”

She smiled tremulously at him. “You’re a good man. I hope you find him.”

John chuckled quietly and stepped back, releasing her hand as he prepared to go. “Not nearly as good as I ought. But I try. Afternoon,” he said with a dip of his head, and crossed the room, then pulled open the door and stepped out to greet the cold, cloudy day, bell jangling merrily behind him.

* * *

 

_Six Days Earlier_

_“Anything new to report?”_

_Mycroft’s assistant (Sierra, she’d told him this morning) shook her head. “No, sir. The added security has not seen any suspicious activity or persons around your brother and Doctor Watson. They are currently in between cases, so they haven’t gotten themselves into any scrapes lately either. Though…”_

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest._

_“It appears your brother may be in need of some stimulus. The violin is getting very screechy-- or so I’m told.”_

_Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Sherlock was always the one who needed constant entertainment. I would see if Inspector Lestrade has anything open for him, but he is a rather good judge of what Sherlock would find interesting, and what he would scoff at. Have we made progress in identifying the man who called?”_

_Sierra glanced down at her mobile. “No, sir. Walker is wondering if you would be willing to help him with a sketch, though.”_

_Mycroft nodded and pushed himself out of his chair. “Very well, then.” Perhaps Walker would be able to recreate Seb’s face, and they would be able to eliminate Seb as a threat for good._

* * *

 

Sherlock found three possible places in a kilometer radius of Whitechapel Mission that the mud on the victim’s shoes could have come from. He took samples of all three, carefully putting them into vials, then sealing the vials in plastic bags. Standing on the corner of the street where the last sample was located, Sherlock pulled off a glove and located his mobile, sending off another message to the only number in his contact list without a name.

_Meet me in the alley on Milward. -SH_

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, Sherlock continued down the street, pushing against the wind and holding his coat tight around him to ward off the chill; the pavement was as bustling as ever, and Sherlock wound through the crowds with an ease acquired from learning London (and people) as deeply as possible.

The deductions slid through the background of his mind, a constant ticker-tape of knowledge, observations of the world around him. _Fourteen blue windbreakers in the past ten minutes, passed that man a few minutes ago, he’s just finished having a session with a prostitute, she’s recently gotten engaged, another of Mycroft’s surveillance, five red umbrellas, Wait_. Sherlock paused, casting a look out across the road, and felt the back of his neck crawl with the subconscious awareness of being watched. Closely. Closer than normal. _Two are obvious, suits in the cafe across the street, those are always there. But where are the others? That one, overcoat and pinstriped trousers, he finished his newspaper ages ago, possibly the smoker hanging around outside that shop._ Damn Mycroft; as if the normal stuffed suits following him weren’t enough?

Mentally growling with frustration, Sherlock ducked into the nearest alley he could find, determined to lose the men tailing him and meet up with Wiggins before Mycroft could send men to the alley on Milward (because of course his brother monitored his phone). Keeping one ear tuned into sounds from behind and occasionally checking over his shoulder, Sherlock melted into the maze of back alleyways and small, cramped footpaths, referencing against his own mental map to ensure he was going the right way. After a few minutes, Sherlock turned the corner that led into the alley he was looking for.

Wiggins was precisely where Sherlock had instructed him to be, leaning against a skip with his hood up and hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Mister Holmes,” the man said in greeting as Sherlock walked toward him.

“Wiggins. Do you have what I asked for?”

The man shot him a crooked grin, then reached up to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his jacket. “‘Course I do,” he replied, and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket, holding it out to Sherlock.

 _He’s back on the drugs_ , Sherlock noted, watching the faint tremble in Wiggins’ fingers and the sheen of sweat on his face, despite the cold; he didn’t say anything, however, just took the paper and started reading.

“Showed the picture about,” Wiggins said, “and a couple blokes’d seen ‘im round before. No one knew ‘is name, though. He didn’t make no trouble, but he wasn’t friendly either. Mostly just came, got what he was lookin’ for, ‘n left.”

“Whom did he buy from?”

Wiggins shuffled and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Coghlan.”

“Price?”

Wiggins looked at him, eyebrows half-raised. “Whatever he was willing to pay.” _Anything, from the sound of it._

Sherlock nodded, taking the information in, and pulled out his wallet. “Fifty pounds, I believe we agreed?”

“Yeah,” Wiggins said, squaring his jaw and reaching out for the bills that were pinched between Sherlock’s fingers.

Sherlock held on, forcing Wiggins to meet his eyes. “Buy yourself a new jacket, a decent meal.” _Don’t spend it on more cocaine._ “You’re useless to me if you wind up frozen to death.”

Wiggins didn’t reply, and Sherlock didn’t say anything more, just let go of the money and walked away, footsteps echoing slightly against the alley walls.

* * *

 

_Two Days Earlier_

_Knowing who the man was did not make him any easier to find. Mycroft studied the digital sketch Walker had helped him create four days ago, an image in the likeness of Seb and ignored the sense of foreboding that had been lurking in the back of his mind for the past day._

_Sebastian Moran. Supposedly Moriarty’s right-hand man. That was all Walker had been able to give Mycroft, and it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Mycroft needed more, needed some sign of him on CCTV or other surveillance, needed some kind of proof of his existence._

_And something (his gut, he supposed, though the idea made him scoff) was telling him that more information would come a price._

* * *

 

John had just sat down with a cup of coffee and a croissant when Sherlock came into view, angrily walking by the windows of Rinkoff’s and throwing the door open. He cast a glance around the bakery, then stalked across the room to sit down at John’s table and immediately took out his mobile; he pounded out a text message, then set it on the table with a glare.

Deciding it probably wouldn’t be worth asking what had Sherlock so mad right that second, John took a sip of his coffee, then told Sherlock what the woman at the mission had said.

“She did recognize him, but no name; he used to come in a few times a week for their meals, apparently.”

Sherlock’s jaw was still clenched tight, but he did look thoughtful at that. “The visits to the mission probably corresponded to his transactions for drugs. According to one of my contacts, those took place every other day or so too.”

 _Lovely_. “Did you find out where the mud came from?” John asked after taking a bit of his croissant.

Sherlock looked out the window and made a sound of dismissal in the back of his throat. “Not quite, but I collected comparative samples. One of them will match,” he said stiffly.

“Well that’s good; further along than we were an hour ago.”

Sherlock scoffed and continued to glower at passerby. John lasted about a minute before he sighed and asked.

“What, exactly, has you all in a huff?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John.“Mycroft,” he hissed venomously.

John chuckled a bit, then tried to hide it when Sherlock scowled at him. “Mycroft? Really?”

“He’s put more surveillance on us-- nearly compromised my meeting!” Sherlock spat. “Stupid, interfering-- and he had the gall to say it was ‘for my own good’. As if I couldn’t take care of myself.”

 _He was probably concerned about you_ , John wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, he pushed the last half of his croissant towards Sherlock and held the baleful look that Sherlock gave him. “Eat it,” he ordered. “I know you didn’t even touch the sandwich back at the flat.”

Sherlock grumbled, but complied, and after the first bite, his expression grew a little less tense. “Knew there was a reason why this place was in the Mind Palace,” he said after a moment.

John smiled, recognizing a compromise when he saw one. “Glad I could help you remember.”

They sat in silence, letting the sounds of other customers, the ding of the cash register, and the faint clattering of dishes in the kitchen wash over them while Sherlock finished off the croissant; John sipped his coffee and gazed out the window, watching as a light but steady rain shower started coming down.

“So, what now?” John asked calmly as they stepped out of the bakery a few minutes later, turning up his collar against the rain.

Sherlock started down the pavement, ready to hail a cab that was coming their way. “Back to Baker Street; I need to compare my mud samples. Perhaps Lestrade and his dullards will have the ballistics report by then.”

* * *

 

_One Day Earlier_

_“I told you I could get past those idiots you call security.”_

_Mycroft forced himself to stay calm. “Oh?”_

_“Guess where I’m standing, right now? In the living room of your brother’s flat.” The amount of smug certainty in Moran’s voice awakened a strong and irrational urge in Mycroft to make his fist connect with the other man’s face._

_“Yeah, I know; you didn’t think I’d really make it. But dear Sherlock has holed himself up in his bedroom, and his little pet doctor is dreaming away upstairs. You know, the amount of absolute crap in here is fascinating. Have you had him checked out for hoarding? Because you really--” Moran cut himself off quickly, and Mycroft heard him make a low growling sound._

_“You brought your fucking dogs out?” Moran demanded, then laughed darkly. “Thought you would catch me when I didn’t expect it? No matter. If I can get past them once, I can do it again,” he spat out, and hung up._

_Mycroft waited (not anxiously, he told himself, and forced his hands to stay still) in his office until the phone that sat on his desk rang; he picked up on the second ring, and told himself it wasn’t worry that made him answer so quickly._

_“Did you get him?”_

_The beat of silence before the operation lead spoke told Mycroft all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop the clenching in his gut when his fears were confirmed:_

_“No.”_

* * *

 

 The call came two hours later, after Sherlock had narrowed down to a place where the homeless frequented in Vallance Gardens and was occupying himself by switching between screeching out notes on his violin and sighing dramatically while shooting glares (and fortunately not bullets, John thought) at the ceiling.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock barked into his phone, and John folded the paper, ready to dash out as soon as Sherlock had hung up. “Ballistics?”

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently as he listened to Lestrade talk, but a small smile - more a baring of teeth though, the one he got when they were this close to breaking the case - crossed his features at the news.

“Good. We’ll be over in a few. I’ll bring my results from the mud,” Sherlock said crisply, and cut off the call, jumping off the couch and tugging on his coat with sharp, precise movements. John followed quickly behind, and in a matter of seconds they were in another cab, winding through London towards Scotland Yard.

* * *

 

_Still One Day Earlier_

_“Sherlock and Doctor Watson are not safe in Baker Street, for the time being.”_

_“So it would seem, sir,” his assistant agreed._

_“They need a distraction. A case. Something to get them out of the flat.”_

_“I spoke to the Inspector; it’s been slow. Too slow, and too boring for Sherlock.”_

_Mycroft steepled his fingers and thought for a moment. “We will just need to create one then.”_

_“What kind of case, sir?”_

_Mycroft waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter; I’ll leave the details up to you. Make sure that Lestrade gets assigned to it.”_

_His assistant nodded and stood to leave, but Mycroft stopped her with a finger._

_“Wait.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“Sherlock...may be able to help with our predicament, as it were. But I can’t go to him, he’s so stubborn he’d refuse on principle.”_

_“What do you propose we do, then?”_

_“Make something about the case personal, confusing, so that he’ll understand that I was the one who coordinated it. That will ensure his interest in what’s going on.” Mycroft cast about in his mind for something that Sherlock would remember, and associate with Mycroft. “There’s a gun,” he continued, “in one of our storage houses. Walker can give you the information, if you ask him about the Muhlfeld incident. I want you to retrieve the gun from the storage facility and give it to one of our agents. Someone needs to die, unfortunately, but pick someone unimportant if you can. Instruct the agent to kill whomever the target is in a professional manner, and leave the body in someone else’s flat.”_

_His assistant was diligently typing as his spoke, copying all the information down in her own coded shorthand. “Yes sir,” she replied. “It’ll be done by tonight; your brother will be called in tomorrow morning.”_

* * *

 

“What have you got for me?” Sherlock demanded as he surged into Lestrade’s office. The DI flinched a bit in surprise at the sound of his door banging against the wall, and he shot Sherlock a disapproving look.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Lestrade drawled in retaliation, with a grin that John recognised as the one Lestrade pulled out whenever he wanted to annoy Sherlock; John couldn’t help a chuckle, even as Sherlock groaned in disgust.

“The mud had high deposits of clay in it. It’s consistent with mud found in Whitechapel and thanks to a...tip,” Sherlock grimaced, “I was able to narrow it further to somewhere in the area nearby Whitechapel Mission. A search of the surrounding streets turned up three places that the mud could have come from; I collected comparative samples and was able to determine the mud originated in a section of Vallance Gardens that the homeless sometimes gather in.” Sherlock spoke in a rush, but his words were clear and precise, and when he was finished he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Well? I’ve told you what I know, now give me the ballistics.”

Lestrade blinked, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I really ought to just get a damn recorder going whenever you start speaking,” he muttered to himself, but dug a folder out of the stack of paperwork and case files that cluttered his desk. He gestured to the seats across from his desk. “Have a seat, would you? This’ll take more than thirty seconds and you look ridiculous, standing in my doorway like that.”

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, but complied, perching on one of Lestrade’s chairs with a haughty look on his face; John relaxed into the other one, and Lestrade opened the file, scanning the contents and reading them out loud.

“Right, so. Ballistics found that the bullet was your average lead-tin alloy, probably the usual brass casing as well. Course, no way to know for sure since we don’t actually _have_ the casing but it’s a good educated guess. Came from a nine millimeter, probably a Glock. The bullet entered his brain at about three hundred metres per second, so it was some kind of handgun; death was instantaneous. But that’s not all,” Lestrade said, and looked up briefly as he flipped to another page. “Someone’s used this gun before.”

John could see the exact moment Sherlock processed what Lestrade had said; his posture grew more proper, and the air around him seemed to crackle with interest. “Where?” he questioned.

“About ten years ago, a man was found floating in the Thames. Same gun, same point of entry. They never found the killer, never found any clues as to why this man suddenly appeared belly-up. Besides the obvious, anyway.”

“Who was he?” Sherlock said, exasperated.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at Sherlock’s impatience, but answered the question. “Famous drug dealer Vincent Muhlfeld. He ran one of the largest drug dealing syndicates in the UK at the time; it was damn surprising to find him dead, since people had been trying and failing for years. But it does raise the question why someone who killed Muhlfeld would also murder some poor, nameless junkie ten years later-- Sherlock, what are you-”

Sherlock had frozen at Lestrade’s words, then jumped up from his seat and stalked out of the office without saying a word. John shared a hopeless shrug with Lestrade - _I dunno either, mate_ \- and hurried after the detective, trying to catch up before the lift started down.

* * *

 

_Ten Years Earlier_

_Sherlock hated rehab. Everything about it, from the group therapy sessions to the disgusting, bland mess they called food seemed especially designed to make his brain rot, synapses firing first too quickly, then slowing down to a crawl in a way that made him want to bang his head against one of the whitewashed walls. The only thing that had kept him from doing so was the occasional cigarette, filched from the head matron of his ward and covertly smoked with his head hanging out the small window in his room._

_“Mister Holmes?” one of the nurses asked from the doorway. Sherlock opened one eye, saw the customary look-at-me-I’m-helpful-I-swear smile, and closed it again with a soft sound of derision._

_“Mister Holmes,” the nurse tried again, then sighed. “You have a visitor.”_

Visitor? Oh, of course. _Sherlock grimaced to himself._ Mycroft _. With an internal groan, Sherlock swung his feet off the bed and pushed himself to standing, glaring at the back of the nurse’s head as she led him through the corridors to the visitor’s room-- the only room in the place, Sherlock noticed, that had anything approaching personality; the walls were painted a soft yellow, and someone had made an attempt at keeping houseplants in the corners._

_Mycroft was perched on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs, customary umbrella by his side; he pasted on a congenial smile as Sherlock and the nurse entered the room, but Sherlock knew his brother well enough to see the boredom and disinterest underneath the affable exterior._

_Sherlock stood in front of Mycroft, arms crossed, and the nurse fluttered anxiously for a moment._

_“Would you-- that is, can I get you anything, Mister Holmes?” she asked nervously. Mycroft shot her a look, and with another stammer, she left the room, door clicking shut behind her._

_“Well?” Sherlock prompted._

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”_

_Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re clearly not here for a social call, so what do you want?”_

_Mycroft held his gaze for a moment, then let out his breath and rolled his shoulders-- on anyone else it would be called a shrug, but the elegance infused in the gesture seemed to suggest that Mycroft was above something so simpleton as shrugging._

_“Very well. If you must know. We’ve taken care of him.”_

_“Muhlfeld?”_

_Mycroft looked at him shrewdly. “Whom else, brother dear?”_

Muhlfeld _._ Dead _. Sherlock sat down in the chair next to Mycroft, his slouch a direct counterpoint to Mycroft’s prim posture. “I suppose this is the point where I thank you for saving me from the deadly clutches of a drug dealer who wanted me dead.”_

_“Yes, well. We’ve never been much for tradition, have we little brother?”_

_Sherlock didn’t reply to that, and the two of them sat in silence for a few moments, until Mycroft cleared his throat and stood to face Sherlock, twirling his umbrella against the ground._

_“I must be off,” he declared. “You only have a month left in your stay here, Sherlock. Try not to murder anyone.”_

_Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat._ No promises _. A smile flickered across Mycroft’s face, and then Sherlock’s brother turned and walked out of the falsely cheery visitor’s room, leaving the door open behind him._

* * *

 

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock watched dispassionately as John hurried toward him, dodging a sergeant with a pile of paperwork, and just managing to make it in the lift.

“What the hell was that?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer; John and his confusion weren’t important right now. He closed his eyes and opened them again to find himself sitting on the lumpy, uncomfortable bunk that had been his bed during his stay at rehab. _Muhlfeld. Unknown junkie. Both killed with the same gun. But not for the same reason_. Muhlfeld had posed a threat to Sherlock. How could a man who was living on the streets have the same level of importance?

 _Wait. They were killed with the same. Gun_. Sherlock frowned. _Mycroft’s not that sloppy, nor are his people. The only reason Mycroft would ever use the same gun is if he…_

“Wanted me to make the connection,” Sherlock breathed.

“What?”

Sherlock blinked and looked over at John. “Mycroft wanted me to make the connection. Which means he’s trying to say something.” The lift doors opened, and Sherlock stalked out, thoughts flying in all directions, following strings of possibility, probability, likelihood. “Mycroft knew I would find the link; he also knew that connecting him to it would virtually end my interest in the murder and shift my focus to him. Which means the case was only meant to be a temporary distraction. Don’t you see?” he asked, and spun around to face John.

“No, I don’t, Sherlock,” John said frustratedly. “What does Mycroft have to do with any of this?”

Sherlock flung his arm out for a cab. “Mycroft had Muhlfeld killed ten years ago. Muhlfeld was a loose cannon, so to speak, and proved to be very insistent on having me dead. Mycroft struck preemptively.” Sherlock ducked into the cab that had pulled up, letting John relay their destination (“Baker Street, please”); Sherlock’s gaze out the window unfocused as he was consumed again by his thoughts. “But why the diversion tactics? Why not come to me directly?” he muttered to himself.

“Maybe he didn’t want you to notice something else that was going on. Or maybe because you’re a stubborn git and he knows that,” John suggested from beside him, and Sherlock turned to pin him with a stare, ready to snap at John for interrupting his thoughts, until the words were processed.

_Maybe he didn’t want you to notice something else._

_Extra security guards. I assumed they were because of the drugs._

_The “social call”._

_The case was a distraction, of sorts. Why?_

A memory flitted to the front of Sherlock’s mind, echoing words from a morning when the air in the flat was chilled from the wind rushing through broken windows and tinged with the smell of smoke. _“Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends.” The Bruce-Partington Programme, it was a real case but nothing Mycroft couldn’t handle on his own, no, he gave it to me, hoped it would distance me from_

“Moriarty,” Sherlock whispered with sudden clarity.“Something’s happened with Moriarty.” Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the cabbie, words sharp and cutting.

“Change of address. Ten Carlton House Terrace. Get me there in less than twenty minutes and you’ll receive a big enough tip to take your wife out to dinner somewhere fancy.”

“Now wait,” John frowned; his brow wrinkled with concern. “It can’t be about Moriarty. Moriarty’s dead. And you tore apart his network.”

“No, possibly dead, but not certainly,” Sherlock denied, shaking his head emphatically and catching John’s eye. “His body was gone within minutes after I was. Mycroft’s people had nothing to do with it; there was always the possibility that Moriarty had managed to fake his suicide as well, but no way to be absolutely sure.”

John’s frown grew deeper as the words sunk in, but didn’t say anything more, and Sherlock found himself grateful for that; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold anything resembling a civil conversation. They had made an agreement, he and Mycroft: if either of them heard whispers about Moriarty’s continued existence, they were supposed to tell the other. Sherlock hadn’t liked it at first ( _meddler_ ), but he had to admit that it was an effective plan; Mycroft had an abundance of government resources at his beck and call, and Sherlock had the eyes and ears of his Network to catch any rumors circulating through the streets. _So if he’s made contact with Moriarty, why keep it a secret?_ Troubled, Sherlock turned his head to stare out the window of the cab, watching London go by on the other side of the glass.

The cabbie pulled up at the Diogenes Club no less than twelve minutes later, and true to his word, Sherlock carelessly pulled five twenty-pound notes from his wallet and shoved them at the driver as he stepped out of the car.

“Ta, mate,” the man said, but Sherlock didn’t pay him any mind.

“Right,” John began, coming around to stand at Sherlock’s side. “Why are we at Mycroft’s club? What’s our plan?”

“We need to talk to Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, and started across the street toward the ornate building, his pace quick enough to disregard any threat from oncoming traffic. “That’s the plan.”

As he finished talking, a plain black car pulled up in front of the club. “There,” Sherlock pointed with satisfaction, and started to speed up his pace. “We can catch him before he goes inside--we won’t have to deal with that ridiculous rule of silence.”

“How do you know it’s him?” John protested from behind him. “It could be anyone.”

“License plate,” Sherlock called in response, but kept going forward. The car door opened, and Sherlock could see the familiar shape of Mycroft ducking out of the car, umbrella tucked under his arm.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, voice carrying loudly across the last few metres between him and his brother. Mycroft looked up at the sound of his name, eyes connecting with Sherlock’s over the top of the car; Sherlock watched Mycroft open his mouth to reply, then drop out of sight behind the car.

 _What happened?_ Sherlock thought frantically, but his question was answered even as it went through his mind by the sharp crack of a gunshot.

* * *

 

 _That hurt - why didn’t I account for the possibility of getting shot?_ Mycroft thought as he shuddered out a gasp past the pain in his chest. He had landed on his back, and as he fought for breath, hand crawling up to his chest and feeling his blood pour out of him, Mycroft was struck by the realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d just _looked_ at the sky. Today it was grey, cloudy, looked like a ninety percent chance for rain sometime this afternoon _oh bloody hell this hurts._ _Should have been more careful. Should have calculated this outcome_. His hearing was going in and out, but somewhere in the distance Mycroft was fairly certain his assistant (Rebecca, today, he was sure- or was that yesterday?) was on the phone, and someone was running, their shoes smacking against the pavement.

Then there was someone kneeling beside him, a hand putting pressure down on the gunshot wound; Mycroft’s vision went white with pain for a moment _oh bloody buggering fuck_ , and Mycroft only just managed to roll his head to the left to catch a glimpse of who it was.

“Sherlock,” he coughed, then winced at the sharp taste of copper on his tongue. _Must have punctured an artery, nicked_ _a_ _lung_.

“What the hell is going on?” Sherlock demanded, and if he thought it possible, Mycroft would have laughed. Sherlock; always wanting the answers, wasn’t he?

“It appears,” Mycroft whispered, and Sherlock bent closer to him in order to hear. “I’ve been shot.”

“Obviously, but why?” Sherlock gritted out. “Why did you concoct all this, the case?”

Mycroft coughed again, the sound nasty and wet from the blood coming up his windpipe as it filled his lungs; he watched with surprise, vision starting to swim, as Sherlock reached out with a hand and wiped at Mycroft’s mouth, his fingers coming away red and sticky after his attempt.

“Was this Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, his voice still full of steely anger, even as his eyes started to turn shiny with unshed tears.

Mycroft shook his head. “Moriarty...dead. His muscle, Moran.”

The fingers of the hand not pressing down on his chest fisted in the lapels of Mycroft’s coat. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you, you idiot.”

“Was threatening….” Mycroft struggled for breath, each inhale feeling heavier than the last. “You. Added security, tried to distract….didn’t antic- anticipate this.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock accused, but without his usual disdain- the word was warped around the lump in his throat, came spilling out with in a messy knot of emotions as hot tears started dripping down his face.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s attempt to distance himself, and held his brother’s eye, trying to convey every last feeling that was pushing through his veins, even as his pulse grew weaker and his vision started to swim. “Moran, need be careful...he’ll try again,” he whispered raggedly, and lifted his right hand _(push past the pain for a moment, this is important. God, it’s important._ ) just enough to brush his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, a gesture that took him back twenty, thirty years, to when Sherlock was a rambunctious, bright child running around in the forest a short walk from their home.

Sherlock shook his head, one hand coming up to support Mycroft’s, cold thin fingers gripping Mycroft’s wrist. “No.” His other hand pressed down harder on Mycroft’s chest, but Mycroft could still feel blood trickling out of the hole that had been ripped through his skin and bone _(Not that it matters, it’s the internal bleeding that’ll do me in_ ). “You’re not allowed to do this, Mycroft. You’re-” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Just hold on, John’s calling an ambulance, so’s that ridiculous assistant of yours, you’ll be fine. You have to stay.”

“Proud of you,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock choked out. “Don’t say it like you’re leaving.”

“‘m sorry,” Mycroft shuddered, then struggled for another breath _I have so many other things to say, all the things I never said,_ but the air wasn’t coming; his vision began to turn dark at the edges, then full of swirls of red, and the last thing he saw was Sherlock’s face, locks of hair tumbling down over his forehead as he stared into Mycroft’s eyes, silently begging for him to stay. 


	2. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, second part: here we go.

_No_. _No_. Sherlock put more pressure down on Mycroft’s wound, and his fingers readjusted their grip on his brother’s wrist, desperately searching for a pulse. The ambulance was coming, sirens wailing in the background of Sherlock’s mind; John was trying to help him up (“C’mon Sherlock, you can’t….you can’t do anything for him, not now”) but Sherlock shook him off, tried to find a heartbeat. _Hang on. Come back. Breathe._

Mycroft’s chest didn’t expand or contract underneath Sherlock’s hands. His pulse remained nonexistent; his eyes didn’t change from their hollow, empty gaze. John’s hand took hold of his shoulder again, and Sherlock let himself be pulled up onto his feet, and somehow managed to stay standing despite having no control over his legs. John led him away from Mycroft’s body ( _corpse_ ), made him sit on the kerb; Sherlock settled his elbows onto his knees and shoved his fingers into his hair. The sticky feeling made him pull them back out, and Sherlock stared at his hands, shiny with red. _Mycroft’s blood. No. Stop. You need to think, need to-_

“Lestrade’s on his way,” John said from beside him, and Sherlock tilted his head up to look at him.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied simply, and let his gaze drop back down to his hands. “The killer will be long gone by now, and Lestrade will be informed that this is above his security clearance within minutes of arriving. It would be more useful to leave now, get to Mycroft’s office before his minions have a chance to clear everything out. He said something about a man named Moran, part of Moriarty’s old syndicate. Mycroft seemed certain Moran was responsible for this, and if we can find Mycroft’s file on him-”

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve been checked out, Sherlock,” John said, determined, and Sherlock made a sound of derision, then stood.

“I’m fine!” he insisted, and held his arms out to his sides. “Look. I’m not the one who just got shot and.” _Died. Mycroft’s dead, it’s not. How could he, how am I. No_. Sherlock took a breath, steadied himself. “I don’t need to be ‘checked out’, John. Particularly not by an idiot paramedic. I need to work, need to figure out….this.” _Need to find Moran and deal with him_. “You can examine me later, at Baker Street.”

“You are not fine,” John said stubbornly, crossing his arms. “And how exactly are you going to explain that?” he asked, gesturing to Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock forced himself to shrug nonchalantly, _don’t think about it. Don’t think about Mycroft’s blood, his DNA, his last moments covering your fingers_ , and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Problem solved,” he bit out, and turned to walk away.

“Wait, Sherlock,” John said entreatingly, and Sherlock reluctantly stopped in his tracks; John came to stand in front of him and dug a few tissues from his coat pocket, offering them to Sherlock.

Sherlock reached out and took one, then used it to gently wipe the blood off of his fingers. The tissue became more and more red as he dipped it between his fingers, and Sherlock took the time to collect the wild dust bunnies of his feelings ( _despair, helplessness, confusion,_ his mind supplied readily) and shove them away, far into the bowels of his Mind Palace. (It was _the_ room, with the padded walls and chains, the room with _him_ , where all the things Sherlock never wanted to feel were tucked into corners and locked away, _because you never felt pain, did you?_ )

“Better?” John inquired, and Sherlock nodded shortly.

“So. Mycroft’s office, then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and swept off with John by his side, curling his coat around himself like the shield of a suit of armour.

* * *

 

_Thirty Two Years Earlier_

_Sherlock held his breath as the door opened, and watched quietly as Mycroft’s shoes came in and walked around, undoubtedly looking for him._ Well I don’t want to be found, _he thought rebelliously, and resolved that he wouldn’t reveal himself._

_Mycroft stopped moving, and sudden, Mycroft’s face was peering under the bed, looking exasperated and affectionate at the same time. “Sherlock, really,” he chastised. “You know it’s time for Christmas dinner.”_

_“I don’t want to go,” Sherlock said firmly, and curled in on himself further._

_“Why?”_

_“Because there are too many people and they’re all loud and stupid and big,” Sherlock said petulantly. “I hate it.”_

_“It’s only for a few hours.”_

_“No.”_

_Mycroft sighed and hung his head down for a moment. “Alright, then. But will you at least come out from under the bed? You’re going to get all dusty.”_

_Sherlock thought about it, then nodded slightly. “But only if I don’t have to go to dinner.”_

_Mycroft raised a hand, palm out. “I solemnly swear,” he said, and so Sherlock slid out from under the bed and sat up, while Mycroft settled down next to him, leaning back against the bed._

_“You know,” Mycroft said after a long minute had passed. “You do give Mummy quite a lot of trouble.”_

_“I don’t mean to,” Sherlock said quietly, feeling small. “I just…”_

_“I know,” Mycroft said gently. “Don’t worry. She won’t be too upset, I don’t think. Besides,” he looked down at Sherlock, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid I have to agree with you. Our extended family is dreadfully dull.”_

_“How do you stand it?”_

_Mycroft shrugged. “It is a misfortune of growing up, brother mine. You must learn to interact with people you don’t like.”_

_Sherlock scoffed. “Then I shan’t ever grow up. It sounds horrible.”_

_“Everyone has to grow up eventually, Sherlock.”_

_“Nu-uh,” Sherlock denied, shaking his head. “I’ll run away and become a pirate, and my ship won’t have any grown ups on it at all. It’ll be grand.”_

_Mycroft chuckled. “Am I allowed to visit?”_

_Sherlock pondered. “Only if you promise not to be boring.”_

_“I promise.”_

* * *

 

Mycroft’s office was tucked away in one of the government buildings that made up Whitehall. The corridors were silent except for the sound of footsteps, but John could feel a sense of unease settling on his shoulders-- something about these kinds of buildings, where everyone’s voices were hushed and so very many secrets were kept, made his skin crawl.

Sherlock seemed to know where he was going; he wound through the halls with purpose and certainty, and John kept a close eye on his as they walked. John wasn’t stupid. He knew that Sherlock had shoved away his emotions and focused on the case, but that didn’t stop him from being concerned. _He and Mycroft might not have been close, but they’re still brothers._

They turned another corner and at the end of the short hallway there was a plain door, identical to the hundreds of other doors they’d passed; in front of this one, though, Anthea ( _because she never gave me another name to call her_ ) was standing and typing on her mobile. _How did she get here before us?_ John wondered, but then berated himself. Who knew what kind of resources she had at her fingertips, but Anthea obviously hadn’t had to take a cab across the city.

At the sound of their approach Anthea glanced up from her phone and pinned Sherlock with a reproachful look.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Get out of my way,” Sherlock commanded.

Anthea raised a calm eyebrow and looked at him. “I’m not allowed to. Technically, this office belongs to the government -- the people who will be investigating into Mister Holmes’ death.”

John watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes and ran his gaze over Anthea’s form. “They certainly moved quickly,” he said cryptically, after a long moment.

Anthea shrugged. “The circumstances are rather dire.”

“But this was the plan, regardless of how it happened.”

John saw a flicker of some emotion (sadness?) cross her face. “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

“Sorry, but what exactly is going on?” John finally asked; Sherlock glanced over at him, then held an arm out to gesture at Anthea.

“May I introduce you to the new British Government,” Sherlock said with a faux bow.

 _But Mycroft is the Brit-- oh_. “You’re the one who’s taking his place?”

Anthea gave another artful shrug, but this time, John could see the tension in her shoulders as she answered. “Someone has to, and as his assistant I am, at the moment, the most prepared to fill Mister Holmes’ shoes.”

“Yes, yes, wonderful,” Sherlock butted in. “Now, if you would be so kind as to step. Aside.”

Anthea raised one eyebrow, a gesture that John took to mean why should I?

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock snapped. “I’m leagues better than whoever they’ll put on the investigation, and you know it. And I can guarantee that this Moran - whoever he is - doesn’t live long enough to weasel his way into prison.”

“Why should that matter to me?” Anthea asked coolly, but John could read between the lines to hear what she was really saying: _Why should I trust you to do as you say?_

“Because you pride yourself on efficiency.” _Because I give you my word._

After a long, pregnant pause, Anthea nodded slightly. “Very well then,” she said, and tilted her head, contemplating them. “What do you want to know?”

“Where is his file on Moran, and what can you tell me about him?”

John flicked his attention back to Anthea, watching her tranquility in comparison to Sherlock’s crackling energy.

“Mister Holmes didn’t tell me much, but I was put in charge of assigning you extra security, as well as relaying instructions to Walker-- our computer tech. The case, as you know by now, was a ruse of sorts, designed to both distract you and ensure your interest in what Mister Holmes had to say.”

“What was the trigger? Mycroft wouldn’t have gone to such lengths for no reason.”

“There was a security breach.”

“He was in our flat?” John interrupted, stepping closer. _He was in our flat and I didn’t notice?_ Sherlock _didn’t notice?_

“You were both...vulnerable. We were unable to apprehend Moran afterwards. It was at that point Mister Holmes decided it would be prudent to provide some kind of stimulation that would also involve you leaving your flat,” she continued.

“And the file?” Sherlock reminded.

“In his home. I’m not sure where. He didn’t want to keep the file somewhere as accessible as his office.”

“Where could we find this Walker bloke?” John interjected, ignoring Sherlock’s look of surprise at the question.

“I can text you his address,” Anthea offered.

“Good enough.”

A moment later his phone vibrated with a new message, and Sherlock took it as a cue to leave.

“We’re off. Please do inform me if you hear from Moran. Or if something pops up in relation to your new...position,” he concluded crisply, then turned with a swirl of his coat to start back down the hall the way they’d come.

“Thank you,” John said sincerely - because regardless of how imperious Sherlock could be, she wasn’t obligated to help them - then hurried after.

* * *

 

_Twenty Nine Years Earlier_

_“Sherlock, if you want to say goodbye to your brother….” Mummy hovered in the door, looking uncertain; Sherlock ignored her and kept his eyes on his book of poisons, though he wasn’t actually reading it._

_“Sherlock, we only have a few minutes,” Mummy tried again, then sighed when Sherlock didn’t respond. “Alright, fine. I’ll just send him up.”_

_The click of her heels echoed as she went down the stairs, and Sherlock sat up on his bed and turned away from the door. He didn’t want to talk to Mycroft._ Stupid Mycroft, who’s leaving me behind. I don’t want to see him ever again.

_Mycroft knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door, then entered, standing at the other side of the bed._

_“You’re supposed to wait until I say ‘come in’,” Sherlock grumbled._

_Mycroft sighed and sat down next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight; Sherlock stubbornly looked away and shifted so that he couldn’t see his brother._

_“Sherlock-”_

_“I don’t want to talk to you.”_

_“I know you’re upset-”_

_“I’m not_ upset _,” Sherlock contradicted. “I’m fine.”_

_“I’ll be home at the end of term for the holidays. It’s only for a few months.”_

_“That’s what you said last year!” Sherlock argued. “And then you said you had ‘important studies that you were - regretfully - unable to get away from’.” He frowned. “I don’t care anyway. I’m fine.”_

_There was a long moment where no one said anything, and then Mycroft moved closer and hesitantly put his arm around Sherlock, pulling until he was resting against Mycroft’s side. They sat there together until the sound of a car horn broke the calm._

_Mycroft squeezed him closer for a second, then stood and began to leave; when he reached the door, he paused, and said quietly. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”_

_Sherlock didn’t look as Mycroft walked away ._

* * *

 

 “I imagined something more….posh,” John admitted from behind Sherlock as they walked up the pavement to Mycroft’s townhouse. “Same with the office, actually. No secret lair?”

 _Oh he certainly has - had- that,_ Sherlock thought, recalling the facility Mycroft had holed him up  in after he’d returned. “Officially, he was only a minor government man. Additionally, Mycroft had very...simplistic tastes,” Sherlock replied out loud as they came upon the front door. “I’ll need to pick the locks.”

“You don’t have a key?”

“Well it’s not exactly something I carry around with me everywhere I go, now is it?” Sherlock snapped. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to be here today.”

John raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I’ll just...watch the road, shall I?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to respond and crouched in front of the door, pulling out his lockpick set from his coat pocket. The quiet sounds of metal on metal reminded him of the other times he’d broken into Mycroft’s house, mostly in his younger years, craving cocaine, bored out of his mind, and pondering all the different ways to sneak past his brother’s security. _I never imagined it would be for this reason thoug_ h, he thought, then swept the idea away with a mental shake. _Focus_.

After a few minutes of coaxing he was rewarded by the click of the door unlocking, and he stood gracefully before twisting the knob and pushing it open. John followed, unabashedly staring at the interior and taking in the furniture and design, but Sherlock spared himself the distraction of a household tour and went straight for the back of the house to Mycroft’s office.

It was as he remembered it, with its large wooden desk and comfortable chair, surrounded by bookcases with titles ranging from London A-Z to expansive texts on prime ministers and foreign governments. Sherlock strode towards the desk and sat in the chair, glancing over the drawers; he started from the top left, flipping through the dozens of folders - apparently Mycroft had very little faith in the security of his office - and scanning them for any mention of Moran. He became absorbed in the simple task, only pausing when John came in some time later to give him a stack, accompanied with a short “here,” before diving back into the papers.

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice pulled him out of the haze he’d been operating in, and he looked up from his file blinking to see John holding out a folder.

“Is that the one?”

“It looks like it,” John said, as Sherlock took the file.

John was right, Sherlock could tell from the first page, which was some kind of incident report. He flipped to the next page, then stopped abruptly with a startled inhale.

“What?” John asked, cluing into Sherlock’s surprise.

“I recognise him,” Sherlock said, pointing at the 3D rendering of a face.

“From where?”

Sherlock took in all the major markers: eye sockets, nose, ears, mouth, searching through his mind palace, and tried to match the face to a place, but couldn’t. “I don’t know,” he growled in frustration. It could’ve been anywhere, the streets, telly, even from his years away, but he couldn’t keep everything, and his mind took control sometimes, deleting things he didn’t specifically decide to get rid of.

“This was made on a computer,” he said after a moment, taking another track.

“Yeah, probably,” John agreed. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s time we pay a visit to Walker the computer tech.”

“Because you think he made this?”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said, haphazardly shoving files back into the drawers, then stood and hurried back through the house. The street outside was quiet, but when Sherlock reached the main road he was able to flag down a cab.

“Read out the address,” Sherlock told John brusquely as he slid into the back seat.

“Right, yeah.” John fumbled to get his mobile out and read the address to the cabbie, some place in Islington, then took a seat beside him.

Being out of Mycroft’s home made Sherlock’s chest feel less tight, like he could breathe easier. _Which is ridiculous_ , he admonished himself, and looked out the window. _A place can’t have an affect on one’s respiratory system._ He dipped back into his mind and kept trying to recall where he’d seen Moran before.

He was interrupted a few minutes later by John clearing his throat tentatively. _Something he always does when he wants to talk about emotions_ , he remembered distastefully. A moment passed, then John took an audible breath and spoke.

“How are you holding up?”

 _Oh for God’s sakes_ , Sherlock sighed to himself, but pulled his gaze from the cars outside to pin John with a glare. “What, John.”

“You’re going to have to talk about it sometime, Sherlock,” John insisted, crossing his arms in a show of stubbornness.

“No, I won’t,” Sherlock disagreed.

John glanced forward to the cabbie, then slid closer on the seat. “Your brother is dead, Sherlock,” he hissed.

Sherlock couldn’t hide his flinch, and tried to cover it up with an acerbic, “Yes, thank you John for stating the obvious,” but something about it sounded off.

John’s face fell and he sighed. “Shit, I’m sorry. It’s just. I’m worried.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said, forcing it to come out even, then turned back to the window. _It’s better this way_. He knew what happened, when he allowed emotions fueled his work. John got strapped to a bomb, or Sherlock was forced to jump off a building, or he nearly bled to death in a small, disgusting alley in Chicago. _Emotions make you messy, unreliable, they make you_ hurt _._

Mycroft had been the one to teach him that.

* * *

 

_Two Years, Five Months Earlier_

_Sherlock ran his fingers through his newly-shorn hair and inspected himself in the mirror, trying to determine whether the short cut and blond hair dye had been enough to sufficiently disguise himself, at least for the short term._

_“I think I’ll go to Munich, first,” he said, giving his hair one last look before turning to where Mycroft stood in the doorway. “I’ve been told there’s a rather large drug ring there that Moriarty has been financing.”_

_Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You shouldn’t have gone, Sherlock. It was a risky move.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock retorted, and stepped around Mycroft into the hall, walking to the safe house’s bedroom to grab the one bag he planned to take with him._

_“I know you went to the cemetery,” Mycroft continued, disapproval leaking through his level tone. Sherlock froze where he was, back to his brother as he reached for the bag._

_“What does it matter? No one saw.”_ Except me. I needed….to see him. In case this dead man’s mission goes awry and I never get the chance again _._

_“I did. Someone else could have done the same.” Mycroft was quiet for a moment, then: “What I’ve said before, it is particularly true in this case. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. If you fail to be discreet, you know the consequences.”_

_Sherlock curled his fingers around the strap and turned stiffly._

_“You can’t afford to let your emotions take over. You can’t afford to slip up,” Mycroft continued. “There is too much at stake.”_

_“I’m not a child!” Sherlock snapped. “I am well aware what will happen if I fail; you needn’t worry about me throwing kinks in your precious_ plans _.”_

_Mycroft blinked, looked down at his shoes. “I’ll see to it that the plane is ready in half an hour,” he said, after a long beat._

_Sherlock looked away as his brother left the room, and focused on steadying his breaths._

* * *

 

John could feel the guilt crawling under his skin, filling his mouth and making his tongue heavy with the need to apologise more. Christ, the _look_ on Sherlock’s face; it had been only a flash, but the plain, heart-breaking pain it had contained had made John want to wrap Sherlock in a hug and take back the words.

Instead, he had let the topic drop after Sherlock had barely managed to say he was fine, and kept quiet for the rest of the cab ride, kicking himself for his lack of tact. He’d paid the fare without a word, and now, as they stood outside the tiny, unassuming flat that was apparently Walker’s, John ran a worried eye over Sherlock, but found no trace of the emotion that was there before.

Sherlock stalked up to the door and rang the bell, and John waited patiently beside him until the door was hesitantly opened enough for someone to peer through the gap while still leaving the chain on.

“Whataya want?” the man asked nervously.

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. You’re Walker, I presume?”

“Holmes? As in…”

“Mycroft Holmes, yes, we’re related,” Sherlock confirmed succinctly. “I need you to tell me about this digital sketch.” Sherlock held out the picture, positioning it so that Walker could see. The door shut, then reopened a second later, this time without the chain.

Walker was, John noted, the embodiment of a computer geek-- loose fitting t-shirt and jeans, tousled hair, big glasses. It was hard to believe Walker was the man Mycroft had decided to trust with information about Moran.

His disbelief must have showed, because Walker halfway smiled. “Don’t really look the government employee, do I?”

“That’s because you’re obviously not a government employee, but a hacker that Mycroft - probably due to some debt you owe him - was sure wouldn’t rat him out.”

Walker blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but after a long moment shut it again and just nodded.

“Now, this rendering,” Sherlock said, and shook the paper.

“Uh, yeah,” Walker stuttered. “Mister ‘Olmes asked me if I could do a digital portrait if he gave a description. I was game, ‘n that’s what we ended up with. Then he asked me if I could try and find anything about some guy named Seb, who might’a worked with a James Moriarty.” Walker gave them a look. “I ain’t stupid. Everyone knows who Moriarty ‘as, an’ every hacker worth their salt knew more ‘an that. I dug through everything I coul’ find, but I only found a full name: Sebastian Moran. Supposedly he was Moriarty’s right-’and man-- his muscle, you could say. A few days la’er, some lady came by, asked if I could ‘elp ‘er track down a old incident file an’ where the gun that was used was bein’ stored.”

“But you don’t know why Mycroft asked you to track down Moran and the gun?” John asked.

Walker shook his head. “Nah. Mister ‘Olmes is a mysterious sort, never says th’ whole story. ‘Sides, I don’ wanna know. Less I know, the better.” Walker paused, the glanced between him and Sherlock. “Why you askin’ all these questions anyway?”

“Because Moran is….” John trailed off, looking to Sherlock for support, but the detective’s gaze was empty, his attention undoubtedly in his own mind, taking apart the information that Walker had given them.  
“Moran has,” John tried again, then sighed. “Mycroft Holmes is dead, and we think this Sebastian Moran was the one who killed him.”

Walker blanched. “Bloody ‘ell,” he breathed out, and looked at John frantically. “Moran-- he don’ know nothin’ about me, does ‘e?”

“It’s highly unlikely,” Sherlock said, coming out of his daze. “Mycroft used you for a reason; you’re unknown to anyone else other than his assistant, and Moran, so far as we know, is not a hacker. If he knows that Mycroft had research done on him, and even that is debateable, he undoubtedly thinks it was done by a suit in some office, not you. But tell me: Mycroft must have had you check CCTV footage and records once you had Moran’s face and name. Why didn’t you come up with anything?”

Walker grimaced. “There’s a number of ways ya could do it, but best I could figure it, s’meone set up a code so’s whenever Moran’s face appears on surveillance, it’s wiped clean, or replaced wit’ another person’s face. Same someone also erased Moran’s records, pu’lic an’ classified. An’ he’s not used ‘is real name to take nothin’ out, which ain’t surprising. Would you?”

“Does the code act in real time, or only affect footage that has been backlogged?”

“Nowadays, backin’ up whatever’s taped happens in real time,” Walker said, ruffling his hair. “So’s it’s hard to say. S’pose it’s possible you mi’ have a minute or so b’fore the virus found the footage but af’er that, there ain’t no way to prove it’s changed.”

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, then nodded sharply. “Well then. We shan’t bother you any longer, Walker. I’ll be in touch.”

John fell in beside Sherlock as they walked away from the house, but they paused when Walker yelled to them.

“Why woul’ ya need t’ get in touch wit’ me?”

Sherlock bared his teeth in something approaching a smile. “Having a hacker to call upon is never a bad thing, Walker. And your skills are quite adequate,” he replied, then turned to John. “We need to get back to the flat so that I can go through the rest of the file and find a way to locate Moran.”

John nodded, a bit relieved; the sky had darkened , and by the time they caught a cab back and John made something to eat, he would need some rest before Sherlock dragged them back out to chase down a lead. “Sounds good,” he said.

In the cab, he made certain not to bring up Mycroft, still worried about the situation but unwilling to cause Sherlock any more pain.

* * *

 

_Nine Years Earlier_

_Sherlock woke up feeling battered and bruised, like he’d been whacked with a cricket bat and then tossed down a flight of stairs. He tried to take a breath around the nasal cannula, and let out a low groan when his ribs protested._

_“Ah, you’re awake. The drugs took longer to wear off than I anticipated, but I ensured that they didn’t give you morphine.”_

_Sherlock turned his head to the right, just enough to see Mycroft sitting stiffly in one of the chairs, looking out of place in the sterile hospital room._

_“What happened?” he croaked, loathe to ask Mycroft but wanting to know._

_Mycroft raised his eyebrows in a show of slight surprise. “You don’t remember. Interesting.”_

_“What. Happened?” Sherlock repeated, gritting his teeth._

_“You took cocaine. And then in the middle of your high, you stumbled onto one of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s crime scenes and attempted to solve it, but only managing to fall out of a first storey window and break your ribs. And, somewhere along the way, you stopped breathing; the Inspector had to revive you on scene.”_

_So he’d overdosed._ Wonderful _. Lestrade would never let him forget this, and Donovan would likely try to use it against him. “You’ll be putting me in rehab, I suppose.”_

_“You started taking drugs to avail your boredom,” Mycroft began, looking at Sherlock, “and because they were something that you could control. At what point, little brother, did the drugs start taking control over you? One month ago? Six?” Mycroft shook his head. “You think cocaine stimulates your deductive skills, when in reality it is quite the opposite. Additionally, I do not relish receiving a call that informs me of your death, Sherlock.”_

_Uncertain of how to respond, Sherlock sneered and fell into old habits. “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t my emergency contact, isn’t it?”_

_Mycroft looked at him, a brief expression of sadness flickering across his features. After a long moment he glanced away and stood, looking at his umbrella as he pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. “A list of facilities,” he said simply, setting the page down on the bedside table. “Should you desire it. You may contact me if you have questions, of course,” he continued, then with a small nod to himself, turned and left, door shutting softly behind him._

_Sherlock stared at the piece of paper, then up at the ceiling with a sigh; he winced when the ache in his ribs flared, and tried to ignore the craving in his veins for something (cocaine) to dull the pain._

* * *

 

_Need you at Baker St. -SH_

_When?_

_Now. -SH_

_On my way._

“We’ll be having a guest,” Sherlock said, looking at Wiggins’ reply, voice raised so that John could hear him from the kitchen.

“What? Who?”

“Member of the Network. I want to get Moran’s picture out there; it’s possible that he’s on the streets. If the Network can work out what areas he frequents, I may be able to discover where I know him from, or where he can be found.”

“Alright. Tea?”

“Yes, fine. I need you to sort through these papers,” Sherlock replied, opening the file.

John appeared in the kitchen doorway with two mugs and a tired expression. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Sherlock looked up and ran his eyes over John. _Ah_. “You were hoping to eat, maybe catch some sleep.”

“You should sleep too. It’s been almost three days since I made you take that short nap.”

“I’m fine.”

John contemplated him, then sighed. “Look, if you really need the help, of course I will,” the said, and held his hand out. “Gimme.”

Sherlock shook his head resolutely. “Nonsense. I’ll manage. Just,” he waved a hand, “be ready. If we need to leave.”

A look he couldn’t read flashed over John’s face, and the doctor nodded slightly. “Of course,” he said simply, then turned back to the kitchen.

Sherlock turned back to the file, tuning out the sounds of John rummaging through the cupboards as he began to examine reports and private notes written in Mycroft’s familiar precise script. Certain phrases stood out, and Sherlock searched in the stacks of paper until he found a highlighter. _Ex-military. Mercenary. Undetected breach in security. Out for blood._

He paused, pen hovering over the page. “So that’s the end game,” he said quietly to himself, and stood up from the couch and turned to face the wall. Moran’s face was indelicately pinned in the middle, and Sherlock considered the man again as he began to tack the reports up as well.

“‘Overrun by your emotions’, according to Mycroft. You want blood. My blood, most likely,” he murmured to the picture as he worked. “But you murdered Mycroft instead. Why?” He studied the paper he was holding and recalled what Anthea had said outside Mycroft’s office. “You were in the flat, but you didn’t kill me. You called Mycroft, to prove how good you were, how clever. He sent his security after you. You got away, but by then…it wasn’t just about revenge, or blood. It was about destroying us, and proving how much better you are.” With a black pen from the desk, Sherlock jotted down his thoughts on the wall: _Destroy. Death. Superiority_. “The only way to get to you is to insinuate I’m above you.” _And the only way to beat you is prove it to be true_.

The sound of the doorbell pulled Sherlock out of his reverie, and he realised with a start that the flat was almost dark, barely illuminated by a soft light coming from the kitchen and through the windows. John must be in bed, then, he decided, and took the stairs two at a time on the way down to the door.

It was Wiggins, and Sherlock beckoned him in impatiently, shutting the door behind him.

“Got here as quick as I could, but I was a while away.”

“You’re here now, so what does it matter?” Sherlock asked as he strode back up the stairs. “I have a face for you-- I need you to take a picture, circulate it around as much as possible. I want to know if you’ve ever seen him before, and if so, where. Details, Wiggins.”

“You got it, Mister Holmes,” Wiggins agreed as they entered the sitting room; Sherlock pointed at the picture of Moran on the wall. There was a pause as Wiggins got a good shot, and when he was finished, he shuffled slightly.

“Word on the street says your brother ain’t alive no more.”

“The word on the street is accurate, as usual,” Sherlock said, avoiding Wiggins’ gaze and pretending to tidy the papers that cluttered the desk. It was easier if he pretended it wasn’t Mycroft’s killer he was trying to find, just a nebulous man who had murdered some man, somewhere.

“I’m...that is, we people who know you. We’re...sorry.”

“I expect results by morning, Wiggins,” Sherlock said tightly. “You’ll get your fee then.”

There was a long moment of silence, until Wiggins, with a quiet “Yessir”, left; his footsteps echoed, and while he didn’t slam the door, the sound of it closing seemed to vibrate through the flat.

Sherlock sunk onto the couch with a sigh, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing his scratchy eyes. _How did I miss such an important piece of Moriarty’s web? Two years of criss-crossing the globe, trying to dismantle his network of people, and I managed to let something like Sebastian Moran fall through the cracks and ruin it all. Had Moran began rebuilding the empire that Sherlock had so painstakingly torn down?_

His thoughts were cut off by the sound of his mobile, and Sherlock answered without looking at the ID.

“Hello.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice said, sounding exasperated and relieved. “What the hell is going on?”

“Lestrade, everything is-”

“I swear to god if you say ‘fine’, I am going to come over there and bloody strangle you. I just got out of six hours worth of paperwork and meetings, and I still have no answers as to why I was turned away from a crime scene where your brother was the victim, or who killed the junkie. ‘Above my security clearance’ my arse. Tell me what’s really going on.”

“My brother ordered the death of the junkie in an attempt to get my attention and warn me of the threat that was being made against me by Sebastian Moran, who happens to be Moriarty’s ex-right-hand man and the one who shot Mycroft. I’m in the middle of trying to track him down. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Inspector?” Sherlock hissed.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade began after a long moment. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh. “What could you have done? You’re a lowly DI with the Met, Lestrade. This man is invisible, even with the resources Mycroft had available to him, how could you help?”

“Do you have a picture?” Lestrade continued doggedly.

“Yes.”

“Right then. I’ll come over, take a look.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re already halfway home, it’ll take you almost an hour to get to Baker Street, even at this time of night.”

“Then I’ll be there in almost an hour,” Lestrade said firmly, and hung up before Sherlock could protest. With a growl Sherlock slammed his mobile onto the coffee table, then sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He leaned back into the cushions and stared up at the ceiling; his eyes started to close of their own volition, and he fought to keep them open. _I don’t need sleep. I’m fine, I’ve gone longer than this without_ , he reminded himself, but his body (traitorous, horrible thing) ignored his insistences and forced him into unconsciousness with an unrelenting pull.

* * *

 

_Eight Years Earlier_

_“I have a matter I would like you to look into.”_

_“Piss off,” Sherlock droned, keeping his gaze on the ceiling in a childish attempt to annoy Mycroft, who was standing in the middle of his small, cluttered flat with a mild look of disgust on his face._

_“How has it been, working with Inspector Lestrade?”_

_“As if you don’t know.”_

_“I know things have been slow lately.”_

_“That doesn’t mean I want a boring, stuffy,_ diplomatic _case from you. Go away.”_

_Sherlock heard Mycroft exhale through his nose in frustration and tap his umbrella against the beige carpet. “I heard you went to Florida last month.”_

_“Did your underlings enjoy the weather?”_

_“I don’t have you under constant surveillance, Sherlock. I hold, after all, a very minor position in our government.”_

_Sherlock snorted. “And Sally Donovan is secretly in love with me. Go. Away.”_

_Mycroft suppressed a sigh, but acquiesced; his footsteps paused by the door. “I’ll be in touch; please don’t hesitate to change your mind about assisting me with the incident.”_

_Sherlock snorted under his breath, and smiled in satisfaction when the front door opened and closed, signaling Mycroft’s departure._

* * *

 

Lestrade parked as haphazardly as he dared, then quickly got out of his car and jogged up to Sherlock and John’s door. He rang the bell, then waited impatiently, rocking slightly on his heels. He’d driven as fast as possible, determined to get to Baker Street as soon as he could. Something in Sherlock’s voice, in the sharp tone and crisp assurances that he was ‘fine’, had reminded him of days past when Sherlock was much more skinny and much less sober; it made Lestrade nervous, worried, and _someone should’ve answered the door by now, right?_

 

He pressed the button for the doorbell and held it longer this time. He could hear the slight sound of it ringing from the upstairs flat. There was silence, after he let go, then the muffled sounds of someone on the stairs. A moment later, the door opened, with a tired and confused John Watson on the other side of the threshold.

“Greg?”

“John,” he greeted. “Sorry for waking you up. I told Sherlock I was coming over, to look at the picture you’ve got of this Moran fellow.”

“No, it’s fine,” John said, and stepped aside. “Come in, please,” he continued, mouth widening in a yawn at the end of his sentence. “What time is it?”

“Almost two,” Lestrade admitted with a grimace. _Not looking forward to going into work tomorrow. Or today, I suppose_.

“...must not have heard the bell,” John was saying as they climbed the stairs. “Not surprising, you know how he gets.”

Lestrade hummed in agreement, but stopped John on the landing with a light touch on the shoulder. “John. How is he? Really, I mean.”

John sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. He’s...bottling it up, focusing on the case.”

Lestrade nodded, and they continued on.

“Sherlock,” John called as they entered the living room. “Lestrade’s…” he trailed off, and something seized up in Lestrade’s gut.

“What?” he asked, looking over John’s shoulder. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch. _Oh God. Please don’t let it be--_

John looked back at him. “He’s asleep.”

Lestrade exhaled in relief, thankful that it wasn’t what he’d imagined. “I’ll wake him up. D’you have any tea? Or coffee?”

John nodded. “I’ll make us some,” he replied, and went into the kitchen; Lestrade went and stood in front of Sherlock, taking in the slight pinch to his features, even while he was sleeping.

Reaching out, Lestrade lightly shook Sherlock. “Sherlock. Wake up.”

The detective woke with a start, breathing heavy and eyes wide until his gaze fixed on Lestrade. “I fell asleep,” he said shakily, and Lestrade lost the hope that Sherlock had been able to sleep without nightmares.

Lestrade quirked his brow. “Good observation,” he said, knowing that the other man wouldn’t appreciate being mollycoddled.

Sherlock’s glare was only half-hearted, but he sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair. “I told you not to come.”

Lestrade shrugged. “And I told you I was going to anyway,” he replied as John came out from the kitchen holding three mugs. He accepted his own with a nod of thanks, and handed Sherlock another one as he inhaled the scent of the coffee greedily.

“So,” John said, settling in his chair as Lestrade perched on the coffee table. “Did your network member come by yet?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade could see the man’s facade fall back in place as he spoke. “He’s showing the picture around. I should have his results in a couple hours.”

“Where is it?” Lestrade asked. “It is why I came, after all, to look.”

Sherlock shot him a glance that said _I don’t believe you for a minute_ , but stood and turned to the wall, taking something off, then handing it to Lestrade. “Here.”

Lestrade blinked and took in the eyes that looked up at him from the piece of paper. _Oh, hell_. “This...is him?” he said unsteadily.

Sherlock stared at him, and John looked up from his mug at his tone of voice.

“You know him,” Sherlock finally stated.

“Yeah. He-- I,” Lestrade began, then cleared his throat. _Oh bloody hell_. “He worked at the Met, for a while, when you were….gone.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Oh of course,” he breathed. “That’s why I’d never heard of him. He spent his time after Moriarty’s death underground, hiding in plain sight.”

“And when you came back, he decided to take revenge,” John continued.

“Oh god-- that-” Lestrade realised. “He applied for a transfer about a month after. Said that his mother was sick, needed to be closer.”

“He needed time to drop off the grid again,” Sherlock said, words clipped. “He ensured his file from the Yard was completely erased, probably cut off any flats, credit cards, and cars in his name.” Sherlock paused and looked at Lestrade. “What did you know him as?”

“Collins. DS Ryan Collins,” Lestrade answered, still shocked. _I knew him. He threw up when he saw his first mutilated body. How did I miss it?_

“It isn’t your fault, Greg,” John said gently from behind him.

“Yeah, I-- I know,” Lestrade replied, and took a deep breath. _Pull yourself together. Sherlock needs your help with this, and dithering on with self-blame isn’t going to do anything_. “What do we do now?”

Sherlock flicked his fingers. “Nothing, for the moment, so you can scuttle off anytime, Lestrade.”

Lestrade fixed him with a hard look. “I’m not leaving, Sherlock. I’ll call in sick, if I have to. I’m not-- I’m here as a friend, as a person who knew your brother. Not as a detective inspector. ‘Kay?”

“We may need his help, Sherlock. You can’t deny we need more people on this,” John chimed in, and Lestrade shot him a grateful look.

“Fine,” Sherlock capitulated. “But we can’t do anything for a few hours, at least. I need to think, see if another sweep of the mind palace will provide any new information that can tell me where I’ve seen him before. And until Wiggins gets back, we have no way to know where--”

Sherlock was cut off by the sharp, trilling ring of his mobile.

* * *

 

_Three Years Earlier_

_“How is Miss Adler, these days?” Mycroft asked pleasantly from across the kitchen table. Sherlock looked up from his microscope and glared, then focused back on his samples._

_“Witness protection. At least, that’s what John says,” Sherlock replied evenly, and switched out the slide. “I wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen her since I unlocked the phone.” It appeared that the frozen cells had a different hue than the room temperature ones; Interesting._

_“Miss Adler, according to my intel, was supposed to have died due to a being beheaded in the Middle East.”_

_“Trying to spare me the gory details? How touching.”_

_“Imagine my surprise when she turned up a month later in Japan, decidedly not dead.”_

_Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”_

_“Why did you save her?”_

_Sherlock switched out the slide again to determine if the difference in colour was present in other types of cells. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_“You took a trip to the Middle East around that time too, didn’t you?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at Mycroft with raised eyebrows. “And you think I...what? Prevented her execution out of a sense of love? Don’t be ridiculous.”_

_“There is no such thing as coincidence, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied evenly, giving him a shrewd look as he stood and straightened his suit jacket. “The universe is rarely so lazy. I just hope you didn’t create more trouble by letting her live.”_

* * *

 

When his phone went off, Sherlock abruptly stopped in the middle of his sentence and stared at the screen. _Unknown_ _caller_ , it informed him, and something in his brain clicked, connecting another piece of the puzzle. _Of course he would call. It’s about superiority, what better way to show he’s above me than to taunt me with my failure to find him?_

 

“John,” he began, voice utterly calm. “Call Anthea, have her call Walker. He needs to trace this call.”

“Do you think it’s-”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, interrupting Lestrade’s question ( _no such thing as coincidence_ ), and reached for the phone, pressing the answer button as he brought it up to his ear.

“Hello.”

“Well hello,” Moran said, sounding delighted. His voice was throaty, husky, _no that’s not the word I’m looking for what--_

“Are you surprised?”

“About what?” Sherlock returned calmly. “You’ve done quite a bit in these past weeks.”

Moran chuckled darkly. “No, not about _that_. About my time at the Yard.”

“Not particularly. It fits in with your egotism and need to prove yourself better than others,” Sherlock replied; a look at John told him that Walker hadn’t traced the line yet, so he continued searching for the word to describe Moran’s voice. _That’s the key, that’ll tell you who he is_ , his mind screamed. His eyes fluttered closed, and Sherlock stood in a massive library that he had seen on one of his trips to the Continent.

“You can’t search every book, little brother,” Mycroft’s voice chided from behind him, and Sherlock whirled around at the sound.

“Go away. I locked you, those emotions...you’re not supposed to be here.”

Mycroft came closer, swinging his umbrella. “Do try to be mature, Sherlock. You need my help.”

“You’re dead!” Sherlock yelled.

Mycroft blinked at him, and a shadow of sorrow crossed his face. “Yes, well. Let’s be thankful for memories. Now.” His voice turned dictatorial, reminiscent of all the times he had coached Sherlock on mis-formed deductions as a child, and his back straightened. “Think. Language is so subjective, but it appears that’s all we have to work with. What is the first word that comes to mind for Moran’s voice?”

“Throaty.”

“Why? No, don’t-” Mycroft held up a hand. “Don’t give me _feelings_ , Sherlock. What are the physical ailments that could cause a person’s voice to become lower and more gravelly?”

“Excessive strain on the vocal cords - particularly from yelling - , illness of some kind, aggravation caused by allergies or extreme weather, smoking, _Oh_.” Sherlock looked to Mycroft eyes wide, memory taking him back to the previous afternoon, on his way to meet Wiggins. _The security men, the extras. Two were obvious, suits in the cafe across the street, those are always there._ “But I wanted to know where the other ones were, the new ones. There were two I could see, a man at a cafe that had already finished his paper, and a smoker. But that wasn’t a member of your team, was it? Moran is the smoker.”

It was so simple now; the man’s face was clear to see in the memory, his features being taken in as habit borne from having a brother that paid people to follow you around.

“So glad you’ve managed to _observe_ ,” Mycroft said with a wry twist of his lips, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Sherlock called, and Mycroft paused, looked back.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I didn’t say it before,” Sherlock argued.

“And you shouldn’t say it now,” Mycroft snapped, then sighed and pursed his lips. “Memory, no matter how useful, is not the same as reality, Sherlock. Go,” he gestured with his umbrella. “Catch Moran. Leave the emotions for later.” And with that, Mycroft left, and Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasp.

“...it was so touching, to see you over his body, trying to stop his death. I really think-”

“Shut. _up_ ,” Sherlock growled, standing. “Do you think that I can’t find you? Do you think you're really _that_ good?”

“Your brother-”

“My brother didn’t know the things I know about you, Sebastian Moran. And trust me, I _know_ you, down to the very core of your mind,” Sherlock spat back. “And I am nothing if not determined; hide wherever you want, but I will find you. There’s nothing you can do.”

“You’re insane,” Moran tried valiantly, but Sherlock could hear the tremor in his voice. “A psychopath.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research,” Sherlock said coldly, then hung up. “John. Where is he.”

“Bart’s.”

 _How_ _fitting_. “Keep Walker on the line. Tell him to follow Moran through the CCTV, very closely. If I’m right, he’ll be able to keep track of Moran before the virus takes effect,” he instructed, moving toward the door.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started, and Sherlock caught his eye as he threw on his coat.

“I suggest you stay behind. Not because I don’t appreciate your...gesture. But as an officer of the law-”

“I know. But I’ll be here, when you’re done.”

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. “John, let’s go. A cab can get us there in fifteen minutes,” he barked, then clattered down the stairs, pulling open the ground floor door and looking both ways down the street. A cab was coming up, and Sherlock waved it down as John hurried through the door.

“Bart’s Hospital, as quick as you can.”

“Now look here mate, I was supposed to pick up another--”

“I’ll pay you double,” Sherlock snapped, and got in without another word. “John, status update.”

“Walker says he hasn’t moved.”

“Good.” Sherlock looked out the window. “The more time we have until he starts running, the better. Do you have your…” he trailed off, unwilling to say _gun_ where other people could hear.

John nodded and patted his coat pocket. “Yes. I’m pretty sure Lestrade knows about it now.”

Sherlock blinked. “He always knew. He turned a blind eye to it because he liked you and because you saved my life,” he replied, then turned back to the window. He felt jittery, like he was hitting the top of a cocaine high, fingers twitching and legs shaking with an inability to stay still. The cab was moving quickly in the light early-morning traffic, and it was barely ten minutes before they pulled up in front of Bart’s; Sherlock shoved his door open and got out quickly, hardly pausing to pull out some cash from his wallet and hand it to the cabbie.

“He’s moving north east, probably making for Long Lane,” said John, and Sherlock didn’t answer, just started running, the sound of John’s footfalls slightly behind him spurring him on.

_The quickest way to Long Lane is through the Rotunda, then a short run down West Smithfield, it’s likely-_

“Sherlock, up ahead-- is that him?”

Sherlock squinted, and barely made out a figure, running toward--

“He’s not going to Long Lane, John! He’s going down Hosier!” Sherlock yelled, and increased his pace, despite the fact that John was starting to fall behind. _I have to catch him, there are too many ways for him to disappear around here_ ; he could hear the blood rushing through his ears as he ran, and his lungs started to burn, _still not back to full capacity after the puncture in Serbia_ , but he forced himself to speed up. The figure became more defined, and Sherlock could make out blond hair when Moran passed under a streetlamp. He disappeared around a corner, and Sherlock realised he must have gone on to Smithfield. Go faster, you can’t afford to lose sight of him now-

As he turned the corner, something slammed into his solar plexus, and Sherlock crumpled, gasping and coughing. _He must have stopped, decided to confront_ \--a large hand came down and grabbed his collar, tugging him into a narrow alley.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” Moran said from above him.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, desperately trying to breathe in air. “You were planning on killing me.”

“Because now it’s so terribly messy,” Moran replied with fake disappointment, and then Sherlock felt the barrel of a gun press against his temple.

“Boring,” Sherlock gritted out.

“What did you say?” Moran questioned, punctuating each word with a jab of the gun. _Wait, wait for him to get closer._ “Did you just-”

 _Now_. Sherlock flung his head back and heard Moran curse as his skull hit Moran’s face; Sherlock took advantage of the other man’s disorientation and hauled himself off the ground, taking ahold of Moran’s hand where it held his collar and using it as leverage to throw Moran onto the ground. The gun fell out of Moran’s grip and skittered across the ground, but Sherlock kept his attention on Moran, who was staring up at him with a snarl on his face.

“Boring,” Sherlock repeated clearly. “Everything you’ve done, from the beginning, was boring, useless, emotional. You’re a failure.”

“Shut up,” Moran hissed, and tried to roll away, towards the gun; ruthlessly, Sherlock brought his foot down on the vulnerable part of Moran’s leg, the side of his knee cap that was exposed by his movement. An audible crack reached Sherlock’s ears, and Moran screamed in pain. Sherlock spared a moment of thanks that it was barely half two in the morning, and that there weren’t any people around. Stepping away, he picked up the gun, then walked back over to Moran.

“Any last words? No, never mind. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

Moran’s eyes widened even more in terror and his nails clawed at the ground in an attempt to pull himself up and run; Sherlock pressed down on Moran’s broken leg with his foot, and the man stopped struggling with a whimper.

“You can’t kill me,” Moran argued frantically. “You’re-- you’re a civilian, there are laws-”

“I’m here with the sanction of the British government. And even if I wasn’t, do you think a small thing like laws would stop me?”

“Please,” Moran whispered, and Sherlock was filled with contempt for this man who had played assassin, had killed who-knew how many people without a second thought, but was so afraid of death.

“You murdered my brother,” Sherlock stated coldly, staring down at the other man. “How could you ever think that I would grant you mercy?”

Everything, for a split second, slowed. Sherlock was aware of every detail, the slightly ragged sound of his breathing, the exact shade of the blood leaking from Moran’s nose ( _must have broken it earlier_ ), the warm and heavy feel of the gun in his hand.

 _It’s time_ , his mind whispered. _Time to end this._

His arm swung up in an elegant arc, and pointed the gun at Moran; he steadied his breath, then pulled the trigger, a calm caress of the metal. He did not flinch from the booming sound of the gunshot or the large, gaping hole that appeared in Moran’s forehead.

It was silent, after. Sherlock stared down at Moran impassively, lowered the hand holding the gun. There were footsteps running towards him, but Sherlock didn’t turn to face John as he came around the corner.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, breathing heavily.

Sherlock turned his head slightly, pinning John with a stare. “If you are uncomfortable with this, I suggest you leave, John,” he replied emotionlessly, even though the thought of John walking away now made his stomach clench.

“No,” John denied, shaking his head. “I’m not... I don’t blame you for doing that,” he said, nodding toward the body. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”

Sherlock blinked, but didn’t reply.

“It’s sentiment,” John said, answering Sherlock’s unspoken _Why?_  “I know you’re in pain, and I wish you weren’t.”

“Ah.” Sherlock realised his hands were shaking, and the gun clattered to the ground as his fingers surrendered their control. _Pain_. Pain was an old friend; he’d felt the sharp sting of needles, the sweaty tremors of cocaine withdrawal, the fiery bite of stab wounds and bullets. But this...every beat of his heart ached as his mind assaulted him with every damned feeling he’d locked away after Mycroft had bled out in front of him. His breathing was ragged, and his sight turned blurry; after a moment, Sherlock realised it was because he was crying, hot tracks of tears crawling down his cheeks as he shook, overwhelmed by memories of Mycroft, Mycroft’s blood, _Mycroft teaching me how to catch butterflies for observation, Mycroft leaving for uni, Mycroft’s attempt to disguise his look of approval when I solved my first major case, and how, how can such a small word as pain be used to describe this?_

After a long moment of silence, John gently tugged on Sherlock’s wrist. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

 _Home_. The word awakened a gaping hole of exhaustion in Sherlock’s chest, and he nodded wearily. “I have to call Anthea; she’ll take care of Moran.”

“Fine. But do it later,” John replied, and Sherlock let the pull on his wrist lead him out of the alley, still overwhelmed by emotion and fatigue. At some point, John’s hand captured his own, and Sherlock allowed the warm touch to anchor him in the city of the present, instead of getting lost in the halls of his Mind Palace, overrun by the ghosts of the past.

* * *

 

_Two Weeks Later_

_Sherlock escaped from the dinner table with a murmured word, leaving his napkin beside his plate and ignoring John’s worried look. He just needed to be somewhere else, away from the heat and people in the dining room. His parents had insisted upon hosting dinner after the funeral, but the atmosphere in the room had been too cloying (too grieving)  to stay for long._

_Sherlock wondered towards the back of the house, until he couldn’t hear muffled voices anymore, and slipped into a rarely-used room; a grand piano stood in the middle, and Sherlock sat on the bench, running his fingers over the dusty keys in contemplation._

_Mycroft had been the only one in their family that played; Sherlock had always been more interested in the violin, and neither of their parents possessed musical talent beyond humming along to the radio. Sherlock wondered why they’d kept it after Mycroft moved out, when it was unlikely to be used again, then answered his own question: Sentiment._

_Shaking his head, Sherlock dug into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter, taking one out before putting the carton away and flicking the lighter open. The flame danced as he held it to the end of the fag, and the first drag made something in Sherlock’s chest decompress just enough to take another breath. Mummy hated the smell, would surely complain about it later, but the familiar taste of smoke on his tongue was too satisfying for him to care._

_There was a soft knock on the door, and then it opened just enough for John’s head to peek inside the room. “You okay?”_

_Sherlock took another drag off the cigarette and let it out, watching the smoke curl out from his mouth. “Fine. Just needed a moment.”_

_John nodded and came in, shutting the door behind him. “Do you play?” he asked, gesturing at the piano._

_“Mycroft did.”_

_“Oh, I’m-”_

_“There was one piece,” Sherlock said, “when I was young, that he would play constantly. I asked him once, why he played it so often.”_

_John was quiet, and Sherlock continued to smoke his cigarette, looking out the window at the yard, and the woods that lay beyond. He could just make out the form of an old treehouse in one of the trees; they had built it when Sherlock was seven, during summer holiday. He’d pretended it was a pirate ship, with him as its captain, sailing the seas with the help of Mycroft, who was assigned the role of first mate or dastardly enemy, depending on the day._

_“What did he say?” John asked at last._

_ Sherlock smiled faintly at the memory. “Because it reminded him of me.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I rather enjoyed writing this, despite the (many) bumps I had during the process; it was a nice piece that gave me the chance to ponder Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship, and what would happen if one of them died. Let me know what you think!


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